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Literature Text
Goodbye.
Once upon a time, there was a past I loved.
Goodbye.
And sweet laughter
lay on the tip of my tongue.
Goodbye.
I remember lazy nights
when we would chase
fireflies with plastic cups.
Goodbye.
And we would play jump rope,
occasionally stumbling on rocks.
With a swish and a tumble, it all came falling down.
Goodbye.
Fairies don't exist in this world.
Goodbye.
Once upon a time, there was a past I loved.
Goodbye.
And sweet laughter
lay on the tip of my tongue.
Goodbye.
I remember lazy nights
when we would chase
fireflies with plastic cups.
Goodbye.
And we would play jump rope,
occasionally stumbling on rocks.
With a swish and a tumble, it all came falling down.
Goodbye.
Fairies don't exist in this world.
Goodbye.
Literature
running.
you tell me that everything has a time limit on it; friendships, days, moments, love. everything is limited, you say, so we might as well rush, run. because it's all going to end anyway, right?
so i started to notice the time stamps painted on your hands, the calendars written all over your heart. i started to wonder, how much time do we have left? how many more held hands, secrets, inside jokes, i love you's? how many more?
i wondered and ran,
ran through the forests without smelling the scent of after-rain. i ran on the darkened streets at midnight without noticing the streetlights, passing lit houses of friends and the sounds of laughte
Literature
A Treasured Find
In empty moments, we open boxes
to find a universe tucked where shoes
should be.
Fancy this, me writing to you via
such a contraption. Rather disconcerting,
I must say.
These are the minutes wrought of marzipan,
where people with ink-eyes move
into the polar peaks between charm and restraint.
You are not a prisoner.
This is a mere example of our hospitality.
And instead of laces and tongues and soles,
I find letters, and language, and souls
hidden where no soiled fingers
can pry apart pages, and sully with eyes.
He's a house cat. But you're a mouse yet.
They sometimes speak of danger and risk,
but my trust is implicit; thus,
Literature
for lack of a simile --
every saturday,
i scribble away at words
that have prettyyellowcolours, but mean nothing.
because if i told you what was true about the both of us, it would be:
we had something special,
but now it's gone.
that's all.
because i don't have any clever similes about
magic and love and how fire falls into ash.
there's just me, and the page, and the stories
i tell you about how we are fire, we are the ocean
and we are the shore.
Suggested Collections
I would like to elaborate on the magical element in this poem and add some imagery, but I will have to see what my future imagination holds. 
Who knows? Yet?
Who knows? Yet? © 2006 - 2024 kabirawhisper
Comments31
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oh man... that's beautiful. very melancholy too.